Poppies
by Harley Grace
Summary: Someone is watching Steve from the shadows, sending him messages. After an event that no one can explain, it's up to the rest of the Avengers to find out who this mysterious ghost is, and what his intentions are. Little do they know that they themselves play a big part in the mystery, one that, when discovered, might leave them all in need of fixing.
1. Part One

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**POPPIES- PART ONE**

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_"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends."- John 15:13_

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The clear blue water rocked above him. Little white lilies, lacking in coherent shape, swirled in the restless water, joining and separating from one another like lost souls looking for unity. Fish darted between the petals, there one moment and gone the next, their scales glinting in the sun.

It was beautiful.

He wanted to stay forever.

The air was crisp and clear, the scent of apples and grass drifting on its currents, mixed with… less pleasant smells of sweat and blood.

That's when he realized.

He wasn't looking at the water; he was looking at the endless blue dome above him, at the sky, and its shapeless clouds. The fish were birds, their feathers the scales that had caught the dazzling sunlight, and as they flew across the sky darkness seemed to follow, blanketing the world.

What had seemed comforting and warm was now depressing and cold.

The sky and clouds were suddenly gray and bleak, not white and blue and pure. Rain began to pour, falling hesitantly at first until Steve could feel the onslaught of the liquid crystals hitting his face, washing away the dirt and dust.

They bounced off the ground at his sides, turning brown as they mixed with the earth.

But there was also red.

A lot of red.

Red which was coming from _him_.

He tried to remember, but his thoughts were hazy and jumbled. How on earth did he get here, in the middle of a field spotted with _poppies_ of all things?

Poppies. They represented remembrance, remembrance of fallen soldiers from even before his time.

How disturbingly well it seemed to fit.

Because he was fairly sure he was dying.

He embraced this knowledge with acceptance, and couldn't seem to bring himself to fear nor despair over the fact that he was bleeding all over the ground, watering the earth and poppies with his crimson blood.

He thanked God for his incoherency, even for his irrationality, because coherency would have been a curse rather than a blessing in his current predicament.

Though it might have driven him to do something about his wounds.

But right now, he just wanted to close his eyes and let the rain wash over his stubbly cheeks, his lips, his eyelids. It trickled down his throat, and drenched his uniform, dying the red, white and blue a few shades darker. The water cooled his aching muscles and limbs which were beginning to numb.

He was looking to his side, could see down the length of his sprawled out arm, right down to the tips of his pale, pale fingers, and then beyond to the woods that surrounded the clearing.

The leaves shook in the wind, green and lush, and it was perhaps that reason why he didn't register the monster between the trees, smashing through the branches with hands the size of dustbin lids as it searched and searched.

Until it found what it had been looking for, unmoving and unresponsive in the field.

Steve mistook its agonized roar as thunder.

But then there was a burst of red and gold among the trees, and his mind, cloudy and messed up as it was, noted that even that was a little strange.

Then the ground was shaking, and a wall of green seemed to be charging towards him, followed by the familiar sound of a jet engine above him.

He looked back up, and the gray sky now had a dark black dot hovering directly above him, before it got bigger, descending to land to his left. Two figures emerged from it, sprinting.

Strange.

To his right, the green beast had come to a halt and a man- a _flying_ man, clad it metal- was kneeling next to him.

Then he could suddenly see his face, saw the beard, the dark brown eyes, and he remembered.

This was _his_ team.

These were _his_ friends.

He was their captain.

And he was dying.

His ears picked up sounds, but they were all sluggish and low, as if he was underwater. He could see Iron Man's lips moving, one corner lifted as he smirked and reached out to put a hand on his shoulder.

But then the iron hand drew back, and the brown eyes took on a new look of shock and disbelief as they saw the blood coating the hand, which trickled down and fell in ruby droplets like the clear crystal rain all around them. The eyes roamed over the rest of his broken form, and seemed to grow more disbelieving by the second, and – dare he say it- terrified.

And then Tony was shouting. Or Steve was fairly sure he was shouting given the muffled sounds, the strained look on his face, and the fact that he was looking up at the two approaching people. One skidded to their knees while the other stood a fair distance away.

He seemed afraid to come any closer, or was just unwilling to.

_Clint and Natasha_, Steve realized thickly.

Red curls tickled his face as Natasha was suddenly brushing away the rain from his cheeks with her soft nimble fingers, her warm breath warming his shivering heart as her hands clutching the sides of his face.

She was directly above him, saying things he could not discern, but her eyes were a unique language in themselves and seemed to be pleading, begging, hoping, loving.

He was vaguely aware that two pairs of hands were touching his chest and stomach, staunching the blood flow.

Then there was a third pair, and the monster was nowhere to be found.

_Bruce._

He felt his face being smacked lightly, and he wished he knew why Natasha (he would recognize the feel of her hands anywhere) was doing it or what she expected from him. It wasn't until the hands were gripping his shoulders, the fingers digging into his aching flesh and shaking his entire body that he realized it was because he was seeing pitch black.

His eyes were closed, and they wanted him awake.

He obliged.

Tony seemed furious with him as he glared fiery daggers and was yelling right into his face, no doubt insulting him billions of times over.

Steve accepted long ago that it was Tony's way of saying '_I care about you, so you better stick around for as long as I do'_. He found it rather endearing.

But at that moment he couldn't care less, because he suddenly realized how damn tired he was.

And as the numbness spread, he just wanted to sleep.

His face was being slapped again, (why couldn't they just leave him alone?) and when he opened them once more he saw Natasha covering her mouth to stifle a sob, Clint suddenly walking out of his vision with his hands in his hair, and Bruce looking too alarmed for his liking. Tony was no longer there.

That's when he tasted the coppery tang of blood on his tongue, and before he knew it blood was trickling from the corner of his mouth and he was choking on it.

Choking on his own blood.

The passage of time held no meaning for him, so he was unsure how he ended up being turned onto his side, coughing blood and clutching at his chest as the next breath became harder to inhale than the last.

(God, why couldn't it all just end?)

He clutched at the ground as he suddenly registered the searing pain throughout his entire body, the gashes and dislocations, the tears and shattered bones. His fingers dug into the earth as he reached out for something, anything, though he was unsure _what_, when a hand took his and gripped it tightly. Clint. Natasha gingerly took his other gloved hand in hers and brought it to her face, looking at him with such love and care that he wanted to cry-

But then they both let go, and he wanted to cry out until his throat was raw for them to _come back_, but he simply didn't have the energy to-

And then he was being lifted up.

The pain was the worst he'd ever experienced.

On it went.

On went the rain, and the broken passages of consciousness. On went the unheard demands and yells of his team mates.

One moment he was being carried by two metal arms.

The next he was surrounded by cold and unforgiving darkness.

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_**A/N:** __Behold the productive results jet-lag can bring about. __I don't even know, but this exists all the same.  
__I'm quite new to the Avengers fandom (kind of late in the uptake) but alas, it has found me now and I have no regrets whatsoever. Plus, I love Steve._

_I hope you noticed the little quotation in the beginning. Interested in finding out how Steve got in this situation for his friends?_

_And... will he die?_

_Please **review** :)_

_\- Harley Grace_


	2. Part Two

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**POPPIES- PART TWO**

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_"Let me go,  
__I don't want to be your hero,  
I __don't want to be a big man,  
__I just want to fight with everyone else."_

\- Hero, Family of the Year

* * *

Steve remembered one particular day, back when he was frail and sick, helpless yet defiant in the face of injustice.

He was with Bucky.

It was an unbearably cold winter's day; men and woman were bundled in layers and layers of clothing, wearing woolen scarves and leather gloves to ward off the biting cold.

A thin layer of frost and snow covered the pavement, making the path perilous for the average walker, as well as all the cars driving on the glossy asphalt road.

Cars honked their horns as they moved at a snail's pace, and the buzz of talk was everywhere, fusing with the bells of laughter. The streets were crowded, more so than usual.

Days like this were a freezing, miserable, wet mess, leaving you feeling uncomfortable and claustrophobic as everyone pushed past you without so much as a glance or apology.

Steve loved it.

He loved being part of the chaos, loved being one with the crowd, even when Bucky had to maintain a death-grip on his arm, cutting off the circulation of his blood so that he wouldn't be swept away by the unrelenting current of bodies.

But what it ultimately came down to was the fact that walking wherever you pleased was a possibility. You had the freedom to be rude, uncaring and obnoxious.

And that was a hell of a lot better than being enslaved.

Perhaps that was somewhat of an exaggerated statement, but people thought it nonetheless.

The potentiality of the Germans or Japanese overwhelming them, storming their streets and winning the war… it was a possibility too horrendous to consider; that their young nation would come so far, only to lose its battle fighting for democracy, freedom, and liberty to the forces fighting for a rule under one man, a maniac, an insane dreamer.

The country had become disillusioned when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor in December, just last month. The idea of being protected, that their shores were safe, vanished overnight.

There was genuine threat.

The Germans had been first to declare war.

Steve remembered the date exactly; December 11th, 1941. A turning point in history, a decision which would change the fate of the world (Little did he know that he'd be one of those turning points too).

It all seemed surreal, especially in that moment, with the streets of New York bursting with life, noise, excitement.

It had been too long since the city was like this. Something as big and devastating as the Great Depression tended to leave a scar.

"Come on, slow poke." Bucky grinned as he finally managed to drag Steve through the worst of the crowd. Cold air slammed into his face, and he felt the hot sting of blood in his cheeks. "Wouldn't want to miss this for the world, would you?"

No, he wouldn't. Not for anything.

The first few of American troops were leaving for Britain. They were going to fight a war on foreign soil, where they'd have to kill people they'd never even met.

The very idea made Steve's shoulders feel weary with grief.

"Bucky," Steve smiled solemnly at his taller friend, "only you would be excited about our boys going to war overseas in a country they've never been to, fighting people they've never met, and possibly dying in the process."

"You make everything sound so terrible."

"That's because this time it is. War _is _terrible, Buck."

"And yet you want to march right into it." Bucky seemed to have lost some of his carefree energy, and Steve knew what was coming, what was about to be said.

He'd heard it hundreds of times before, and he would hear it hundreds of times again.

"Bucky-"

"Don't you 'Bucky' me, Steve." Bucky said, his face an annoyed grimace. "Seriously. Are you sure you want to do this?"

"How come you get to enlist, but I don't?"

"Let me see, your heart for one is in constant threat of failing, then there's the asthma-"

"So?"

Bucky stared at the smaller blond with obvious dismay. "So?! _So_, you wouldn't be able to go more than a hundred yards with all that equipment on your back-"

"Thanks." Steve muttered under his breath.

"And something could happen to you."

"Something could happen to you, too."

"Stop doing that!"

"Doing what?"

"Using my own arguments against me! I'm not kidding, Steve! I made a promise to myself after your mom died-"

Steve visibly flinched.

"And I intend to keep that promise. I'm not going to let you run off and get yourself killed."

Steve hated being coddled; yet shame burned through him at the prospect of disappointing both his mother and Bucky. He missed his mother more than he let on. Yet Bucky saw the un-seeable, and used it against Steve. His heart ached at the very memory of her long, blond curls, the way she would sooth him at night when he woke up crying from a terrible nightmare, her smooth-as-silk voice lulling him back to the land of the dreams.

He remembered her pointing out constellations in the night sky as they lay out in the field, surrounded by long, itchy grass, but Steve didn't mind. His mom finally had a moment to just stop and breathe, a moment she decided to spend with him. She was his biggest role model. The way she juggled between all her jobs amazed him to no end.

He remembered promising to help her with the money issues when he was older, remembered the fire and drive he felt when he saw her becoming weaker and weaker to be the best son he could ever be.

He never got to.

A heavy silence hung between them as they crossed the road.

Luckily a screeching car broke it.

"Watch where you're going, morons!" The driver yelled at the duo, his nose red from the cold.

"Hey, I'm walking here!" Bucky yelled back, pushing Steve in front protectively. Steve rolled his eyes as he stepped up the curb. He was (unfortunately) used to being treated like a breakable porcelain doll.

"Sometimes I really hate these streets." Bucky muttered under his breath as they trekked on. "It's like decency has gone extinct-"

Steve couldn't breathe.

"It's this city, you know. Makes everyone think they're on top of the world-"

He couldn't _breathe_…

"Can't say I disagree. New York's the American dream, am I right?" Bucky stopped his rather pointless rambling when he realized his trusty partner wasn't beside him. He turned, seeing the blond hair a few meters back, and sighed. "Come on, Steve, keep up." He said with a nudge of his head.

Then he saw- and he bounded towards his brother in all but blood.

Steve was already turning blue.

"Oh no, Stevie…

Not here.

"I'm here, I've got you…"

Not now.

He arms circled around his friend as he dragged him towards the protective cover of the brick walls, keeping them out of the way of the bustling and unaware crowd.

"Come on, Steve. You can get through this. You've done it before; you can do it again, right?"

Steve didn't inhale, _couldn't_ inhale. He was clutching feebly the front of his winter coat, pulling at the folds.

"I've got you, Steve. It's gonna be okay. Do you hear me? You'll be alright… just… _breathe_…" Bucky's voice was shaking now… and he'd been trying _so hard_ to conceal his panic, his desperation, his _helplessness_…

"Please, Stevie… please…"

"_Come on, Steve!"_

"Breathe. Come on, remember the exercises?"

"_If you die on me, Cap… I swear, you'll have to answer to all of us…"_

"We went through them before, remember?"

"_Clint's hyperventilating, and it's your entire fault…"_

Bucky was there, in front of him, gripping his arms.

"_Steve_?" His voice pleaded with him, but it was two voices at once now. _"Steve. Please don't do this…" _Two voices from one mouth, begging.

He saw spots of black and white dot his vision, like fireworks on the fourth…

"_NO! BREATHE, GOD DAMN IT!" _

Bucky had an iron grip on his arms; he was shaking him roughly, not even trying to be gentle.

"_No, no, no… this isn't where it ends… you have to give me a sign here, Steve…who did this to you?"_

There was raw horror in the voice, raw and naked enough for Steve to realize that something was most definitely amiss.

"_Tell us, Steve… so we… so we can avenge you…"_

Was someone sobbing? He so desperately wanted to comfort them, to ask how he could help, how he could ease whatever pain they were being forced to bear…

But his chest felt so, so heavy and constricted, and he didn't know the difference between north and south and east and west. He didn't know anything at all.

"_Steve…"_

Just that he was suddenly so, so cold, and Bucky was there and saying "_Come back to us"_, but his voice was fading.

And in a blink it was all gone.

* * *

He was staring up at grey metal; the ceiling of a jet. A S.H.I.E.L.D. jet.

He thought he could still feel the ghost of Bucky's fingers digging into his arms, until he realized that there actually _were_ strong hands wrapping around his upper arms, holding him down.

"_Steve_."

Sudden agony ripped through his muscles; his splintered bones were digging into his torn and shredded flesh, and there was yelling, so much yelling.

His lungs burned, fire and ice altogether, scorching and freezing his chest. The air he breathed, the delicious, glorious air only fueled the flames of the fire burning inside him. The yelling escalated to screaming.

It was him. He was the one yelling out hoarsely, screaming like there was no tomorrow.

Perhaps there wasn't.

"Hold on. We're almost at base." That was Natasha. Her voice reminded him so much of his mother's.

And like he did with her, he let Natasha's voice, smooth and sweet as honey, lull him into a blissful, painless sleep.

He could escape the monsters and demons there.

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_**A/N:** So, I'm really picky with my stuff, which is mostly why it takes ages for me to update anything. I think this worked out okay though. Hope you guys enjoyed it :) Let me know in the review box below (heh, that rhymes) _

_We still don't know if he'll survive this... or what happened. That'll all come in due time, though... I just really love exploring and writing about Steve in the 40's. _

_**Review** :)_

_\- Harley Grace xx_


	3. Part Three

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**POPPIES- PART THREE**

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_"Numbing the pain for a while will make it worse when you finally feel it." - J.K. Rowling, 'Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire'_

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Steve drifted, but not aimlessly. He was going away, to the place where dead men go. What he saw, heard, and felt- it would be a futile and pointless exercise to try and communicate it to you through words.

Should an attempt be made, this is all that can be said: Steve felt things only dead men could feel. He saw things that only dead men could see. He heard things that only dead men could hear. He was timeless, bodiless.

To describe such an experience to someone who has only known the effects of time all their existence, who has only known the feel and weight of their own weary bodies, would once again prove impossible.

Perhaps there was only one word to describe it; indescribable.

Steve's faith had not been misplaced.

But it was not his time. Not yet.

He was back within time and his body before he knew it; his body and all its familiar, earthly senses. His nerve endings were buzzing with electricity as his body suddenly jerked, his ears ringing with an endless, high-pitched wail.

The heels of his feet slammed back down on a hard surface, presumably whatever he was lying on. It clanked, like metal. He felt his bare shoulder blades painfully pressing against its icy coolness.

But what he felt most of all was the cotton in his head, the ache in his chest, and his nerve endings burning and prickling with red heat.

"_Bring it up another two hundred volts!" _

Something was missing.

"_Get ready!"_

"_Mr. Stark, you're not supposed to be in here! Agent Barton, please, I must insist that you all leave-"_

A pulse.

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_**36 days ago**_

Steve received the first message on a Saturday.

Weary from the week, he had made his way towards his apartment on his beloved bike, unsuspecting, with the happy prospect of a steaming hot cup of tea, a worn out quilt which he loved to curl up in (and he was not ashamed in the least, no sir), the couch, and the extended edition of _The Fellowship of the Ring_. If there was one thing he particularly loved (obsessed) about the 21st century, it was the Masterpiece Trilogy Stark had taken the liberty of introducing him to.

He'd practically devoured the books in the three days that followed his first sighting of the movie, and almost succeeded in driving Stark legally insane asking about the other two.

"_For God's sake, Rogers, you don't need _me_ to see them with you! Just take the goddam movies!"_

(About this one thing, Steve couldn't quite make himself feel all too guilty about- he had absolutely no intention of ever giving the movies back).

Steve was not happy. He was not adjusting.

But he didn't exactly have a choice. Little things, like movies and books, made the journey a little easier. They were consistent in one thing; human nature. And Steve really needed some consistency.

Upon unlocking his apartment door, red paint cracked and peeling into little, delicate wings, he walked into his apartment to find the lights on.

Steve never left the lights on.

The soldier inside him tensed with new-found suspicion; his senses flared.

Yet all he could hear was the commotion of the cars on the street, the bustle of people, the slam of a door below. The clucking of pigeons, and the light ruffling of feathers. Water running through the pipes.

He could tell someone had been there- he liked to think he had a sixth sense about that sort of thing, and never before had it ever mislead him nor let him down. The War had taught him to rely on his intuition; it was just as important as his physical abilities and his reason.

He considered calling Tony. The thought was instantly crushed, however, before it even had the chance to fully materialize; whatever was wrong, he was sure he'd be able to handle it alone. He also didn't like the idea of dealing with Tony's smugness if this turned out it be nothing next to life-threatening.

He searched the apartment with the grace of a prowling cat. The wooden floor boards creaked ever so slightly as he went from room to room, always checking the corners, until he was absolutely certain he was the only one in the apartment. It took little under five minutes.

Releasing a sigh as his muscles relaxed, Steve turned to finally make his tea.

There was a note taped to the back of his bedroom door.

Simple, 12-sized, New Times Roman font, on plain white paper, black ink.

Two chosen lines from a poem.

'_My Captain does not answer,  
his lips are pale and still…'_

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It continued. Week by week, a new note arrived, wherever it may, be it his apartment, Stark Tower, or even the Helicarrier. It didn't take long for Steve to realize what his tormentor was doing. Two lines arrived on each note, always following the previous two.

_('My father does not feel my arm,  
he has no pulse nor will…')_

And yet he did not possess the heart to tell anyone. Soon he convinced himself entirely that it was some crude joke, a game meant to frighten him for amusement. He went about his life as he always had; visited the tower often, explored new corners and crevices, unlocked New York's new hidden secrets, went to church on Sundays, and even made a trip or two to Washington (mainly because the President requested it).

_('The ship is anchor'd safe and sound,  
its voyage closed and done…')_

Occasionally a mission would crop up, and his comfortable, domestic routine would be interrupted-

_('From fearful trip the victor ship,  
comes in with object won…')_

-but he always returned, a little bruised and beaten, to the comfort of the city. White lights, neon colors, the long monotones of the cars' horns blending together into one blaring cocktail, while Nature would remind everyone of its existence by sending flocks of birds flying across the gray skies, and washing away the man-made filth with plights of cleansing rain.

_('Exult O shores and ring O bells!  
But I with mournful tread…')_

And when Clint asked him whether he was okay (secretly harboring a concern that ran deeper than he displayed), Steve, ignoring the weight of what he knew to be the final note in his back pocket, replied "I'm fine," and smiled.

'_Walk the deck my Captain lies  
Fallen cold and dead.'_

* * *

**_The Poem is 'O Captain! My Captain!' by Walt Whitman. Did you know it's about Abraham Lincoln 's death? That makes me sad..._**

**_So. __'Tis mysterious. _**

**_I apologize if anyone is confused. But we've got our first glimpse (kind of) of our perpetrator. And, we know now, that Steve knew he was in danger... but didn't tell anyone. Oh Stevie... you can be so irrational sometimes..._**

**_Please review! :)_**

**_-Harley Grace xx_**


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